


it catches up with you

by spikeface



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Fight Sex, M/M, Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-12-03 14:03:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikeface/pseuds/spikeface
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is a debt slave for Saito, fighting in vicious underground rings.  He has never lost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Arthur only realized they had arrived at the ring when Saito pulled out the leash. 

He stared out the car’s tinted window as Saito snapped it onto his collar, saw a white building indistinguishable from the others on the block. Saito led him into the building, down a long dull hall like dozens Arthur had walked down before. The elevator at the end of the hall had the expected gleam of new construction.

Only two floors down. The bets would be decent, nothing extravagant.

Ariadne met them at the elevator, held out her hands. Arthur unbuttoned his vest and handed it to her, followed it with his tie and shirt, careful not to tangle them in the leash. Once he’d stripped down to nothing but his tailored pants, Ariadne led them past security, through a door into the seating. Arthur felt the familiar eyes of the audience on him -- irrelevant. These were Saito’s peers, not his.

Saito took his seat, in one of the box seats reserved for the owners of the players. He removed his collar with a click of the buckle. The world came into perfect, lethal focus. He was back in the desert, alone in front of the platoon, knowing that every second could be his last and utterly without fear.

He descended into the Pit.

His opponent, stepping in from the opposite side as they were both announced by their respective agents, was Berg, newly acquired by Cobol VP George Patior. So far he’d been sequestered in Patior’s compound, with only a few preliminary practice matches at 528 to establish his reputation as a competent, ruthless fighter. He had a ten pound advantage he had yet to figure out how to use, a mean right hook and a weak right ankle from a recent sprain. Older injuries included two fractured ribs, three concussions, a broken nose and a childhood case of asthma.

Arthur had researched him thoroughly. He never made the same mistake twice.

Berg crouched low, slinked sideways to force them to circle. It was a typical rookie move, one Arthur had faced dozens of times as the player tried to size him up, to find the weak spot everyone was sure Arthur had. No one had managed to find it yet -- including Arthur himself.

Two years in the ring still hadn’t given Arthur any love for the game, but he’d always had a sense of style. He waited, forced Berg to come to him.

When Berg’s attack came, it was rote and predictable, a feint with the left while he snapped up with the right. Arthur dodged, caught his wrist and pulled, flipped Berg over without letting his wrist go. His arm dislocated with a sharp pop.

After that, they both knew it was only a matter of time.

Berg held on gamely, and Arthur allowed him a few blows and pins to extend the match. Arthur’s unblemished record was legendary in the pits, and the only way Saito could keep the odds on him anywhere close to profitable was to maintain the illusion that Arthur could be beaten. He knew the crowd was always hungry for it, that every one of those impeccably dressed CEOs was dying to see him fucked or killed. Probably fucked, judging by the roar they gave whenever Arthur let himself be held down. It grew whenever Berg forced him to the ground, and by the third time it had reached feverish heights. Wine from their glasses splashed onto the packed sand of the pit, and amidst the cheers Arthur heard the distinctive sound of sucking as trophy men and women got to their knees and let the audience members act out their own victories.

He flipped Berg again at that, ratcheted his dislocated arm up behind his back until Berg screamed. He held it there, let Berg sweat through it until tapped out his defeat with pragmatic resignation. Losing to Arthur had become a rite of passage for new fighters. He fucked them more often than he killed them: rarely did an owner drop an investment for something as commonplace as losing to Arthur. The crowd, so effete and disinterested at the beginning of the match, roared for a kill. Arthur watched Patior: the final call was up to the owner of the losing player. Patior sat unmoving, apparently unaffected either by the pleading of his player or the bellowing of his peers. Finally he stuck his hand out. Slowly, dramatically, his hand formed a fist, thumb struck out parallel to the ground. Then, as if the weight was gathering in his thumb, it dropped down.

No surprise there. Cobol’s people never liked to lose, and especially not to Arthur, even after all this time.

Berg lashed out immediately, with the force and desperation of a man with nothing to lose. Arthur had grown used to it. He could count on one hand the number of times a fighter had bared his neck with dignity.

He snapped Berg’s neck with the ease of long practice. Berg’s hands fell from Arthur’s neck to his side, soundless under the cheers of the crowd. Patior glared down at him, and Arthur distantly wondered why he bothered: Saito had paid all Arthur and Cobb had owed Cobol, and Arthur had spent the next five years as a dog in the Pit.

Arthur closed the man’s eyes before he left; he was a professional, after all.

Ariadne found him later, when his collar had been put back on and Stephen was checking him over. As ever she looked too young to do what she did, out of place in Saito’s opulently furnished mansion, a child in her mother’s cold grey suit.

“Any damage?” she asked. She used to ask if he’d been hurt.

It hadn’t even been that good a kiss.

“Usual wear and tear,” Stephen replied for him. He patted Arthur’s leg paternally, nodded, and left.

Ariadne held out the file, arm’s length between him. “Your next appointment is next week.”

“So soon?”

“He moves quickly. Make a note.”

Arthur showered, dressed, and turned to the file.

\+ + +

The fighter, Nash, was nothing special from the stats. He lost as often as he won, although his owner didn’t seem to mind, thumbs upping him through loss after loss. Arthur scrolled through his medical history on the laptop Saito had allowed him: Nash had taken a serious beating two appointments ago, strained his elbow and suffered hairline fractures in two ribs. He’d accumulated a series of wounds centralized on the right side of his torso -- left-handed, possibly, or he’d suffered some injury there that hadn’t made the books, something to weaken that side significantly, possibly incurred during childhood.

He did some preliminary research on the owner. Robert Fischer was the son of Maurice Fischer, the late head of the Fischer-Morrow empire. Arthur remembered it vaguely. It had been five years since Saito had abruptly taken control of its market after the dissolution of the company. Preliminary research filled out the picture more fully: Fischer Jr. had all of his mother’s disastrously pretty good looks and none of his father’s ruthless business acumen. His father’s death, following quickly on the heels of his mother’s, had sent him into a downward spiral that had splashed messily all over the tabloids: scandalous liaisons, numerous busts with prostitutes, expensive sports cars totaled all over Australia, and enough cocaine to tank an elephant. No one had heard from him since. 

He’d started making the rounds about a month ago, with a string of appointments following rapidly on each other, as Ariadne had said. He was nothing but a middling entrepreneur, no real funds or investors to speak of, pretty enough that he could be a threat but useless without wealth, ambition, or a social circle.

Not that Arthur cared. His business was in the ring, not around it.

\+ + +

They went three levels down this time: a smaller audience, bigger bets. Arthur didn’t play for them often. Saito had the expense to spare, but it was hard to find opponents who wanted to risk a player on Arthur. Bigger stakes meant a more likely death sentence, and Arthur’s reputation meant a match was usually a waste of a player.

Perhaps Fischer thought Nash’s loss in the ring would be worth whatever he could gain outside it.

Arthur did not need distractions. He stared at the links of chain that comprised his leash, the way they gleamed in the harsh light of the hallway, how they dulled to a glimmer once they’d entered the arena: the soft lights were the only hint of forgiveness here.

It was all as he had memorized, something he could do with his eyes closed. He stared across at Fischer, scanned his fighter for any last detectable changes in his physique.

The man who followed Fischer, shirtless and barefoot, wasn’t leashed or even collared. He also wasn’t Nash.

“He switched players.” Ariadne sounded impressed.

“Can he do that?” Arthur asked. The new player was a pitbull of a man, a narrow frame dense with muscle. “Is that legal?”   
“Technically,” Saito answered. “And very clever.”

Easy for them to say; they weren’t about to face this man in a fight to death or fucking. Arthur had never seen this man before, hadn’t been able to research him.

Arthur did not like unknown quantities.

The new player wasn’t a big man, but he gave off the impression of largeness as he slouched at Fischer’s side. His muscles strained against his own skin, filling him up until he threatened to burst. Even so there was a looseness to him, in the softness of his jaw, the way his brow hung over his eyes, the way he seemed to be leaning back even when he hunched forward.

Low center of gravity, difficult to throw. Probably relied on his weight more than technique, which would give Arthur his opening. Broken finger on the left hand, healed improperly -- a small injury, unusual that it stuck, given the attention masters tended to give their fighters. An old injury, then, one he’d acquired before Fischer.

When had Fischer acquired him?

He stripped down to his pants, watched his opponent do the same and confirmed that he had the dense muscle structure Arthur had anticipated. He skimmed the man’s body like a file. This man was a very different build from Nash, different from most of the other opponents Arthur had faced. Tall, lean fighters were the fashion, and this man was neither.

His eyes flicked back up to the man’s face as he realized he was being watched in turn. That was not unexpected; fighters often tried to parse his secrets in a vain attempt at victory. But this man wasn’t cataloguing his musculature, looking for old injuries or weaknesses to exploit. He was staring at Arthur’s face -- at his mouth.

Arthur was struck with a sudden, dizzying burn of irritation. Who the fuck was this man?

Saito undid his collar, the familiar weight suddenly gone from his neck. Everything in him and around him slowed to insignificance: the low rumble of the crowd, his heartbeat, the last minute switch in fighters. This new man, whoever he was, was just another obstacle, and Arthur would meet and deconstruct him as efficiently as he had every other one in his life. Arthur could take apart an M16 in under fifteen seconds; this man would be no different.

“Eames,” Fischer’s agent announced, as Ariadne echoed, “Arthur.”

Down they went, into the ring.

Eames didn’t circle, didn’t attack or step back. He shifted his weight without any sign of fear, and waited, hands held up loosely by his shoulders and curled into only the hint of fists. He was half smiling, playful, as if this were all a game, as if they hadn’t been put in here to hurt and fuck and kill each other. He was still staring at Arthur’s mouth.

Arthur snapped him one right in the face.

It was a petty blow, the kind Arthur didn’t usually waste his time on, but it was the closest to research he’d get in short notice. Eames was handsome and well groomed, outwardly affable. Arthur watched blood run down his pretty face and waited to see whether his vanity was more powerful than his good temper. Either was a weakness.

Eames grinned, licked the blood that dripped down into his mouth, and lashed out with a right hook.

Arthur ducked easily; Eames telegraphed his every move in his chest, in the twist of his torso. He packed obvious force in every missed blow, but he was too slow. Arthur twisted away, weaved in and out and pelted Eames’ face with blows. It was showmanship; the crowd loved to see a handsome player destroyed.

He’d make Eames stop smiling soon enough.

It would be difficult to throw Eames, given his weight and the way it was distributed. He didn’t dance away from Arthur’s blows -- not that he could have escaped if he’d tried -- but he did breathe out, tense in just the right way to turn broken bones into some intercostal bruising, protecting his organs with what felt like a solid wall of muscle. Arthur danced around the ring, aimed for the face until Eames was squinting through blackened eyes, still grinning with split lips and teeth tinged with red. That was annoying. 

Arthur calmed himself; emotions had no place in the ring.

He needed to focus. Wearing out an opponent was a dangerous plan, because it involved a blow to one’s own stamina as well. Arthur was winning points from the crowd for sadistic showmanship, but he was breathing harder than usual, could feel his response time beginning to lag. He didn’t usually have to leave things to chance for this long, preferred to begin with his opponents thoroughly researched and hamstring them within the opening moves. 

Eames was also an atypical opponent. There was no tension in his movements. He was still flushed with the same lazy confidence he had been when he’d first stripped and watched Arthur do the same. He was bruised and bloodied and Arthur had been wearing him out thoroughly but he didn’t seem worried, as though no one had told him this was life or death -- as if he didn’t care.

It was time to make his move.

This time, when he lashed out, he let himself slow, just enough that Eames could catch his wrist. Eames lunged forward and pulled him closer, and Arthur went with him. He twisted out of Eames’ grip, caught Eames’ wrist in turn, and kept moving forward. He kicked at Eames’ leg, throwing him off balance, and whirled around Eames’ back, still holding onto Eames’ wrist as he wrenched Eames’ arm up his back. Enough pressure that way and Eames would be forced to the ground to avoid breaking his arm. Arthur could break it when he was already on the ground.

He wrapped his free arm around Eames’ neck and pulled up. It was the first time he touched Eames beyond the brief smack of knuckles on flesh. Eames was hot and broad, smelled like sweat and blood and something more expensive. He rippled under Arthur’s grip.

It was a beautiful hold, flawlessly executed, stylish without being flamboyant, characteristic without being repetitive.

Eames reached back with his free hand, grabbed Arthur by the back of the neck, and pitched Arthur forward over his shoulder.

He landed on the ground before he could register what had happened. The air rushed out of his lungs as Eames dropped onto him. Both of Eames hands wrapped around his neck relentlessly -- just enough to make him writhe in air-deprived agony, not enough to actually collapse his trachea. He lashed out half blind, sought weak points along Eames’ wrist, scrabbled at Eames’ bleeding face. He kicked at Eames, smashing into him with his feet and knees, writhed up with his hips to snap at Eames’ ribs. Eames didn’t seem to care, bore down on him completely unaffected.

Arthur had gotten hard from the suffocation. 

He turned, rolled away and tried to roll to his feet, but Eames pounced before he could get farther than hands and knees.

“Gotcha,” Eames murmured, settling heavily against his back, crouched between Arthur’s legs.

There had been other fighters he had allowed to pin him, a handful of others who had managed on their own. Arthur was adept at using his opponent’s weight against him. He smacked up with his hips, pitched his shoulders to the side to try to shift Eames’ weight. He jerked back with his elbows, smacked Eames several times in the ribs before Eames pushed him down. Eames was so fucking heavy, like a man twice his size condensed into someone shorter than Arthur.

He had no idea how long he tried to throw Eames off. Eames was gripping both of his biceps, his thumbs digging into the inside of each of his arms. It would bruise, Arthur knew, a stain he’d left on hundreds of other men -- the ones he’d fucked.

Arthur tried again and again. Eames held on like a pitbull, bit into him with his hands and held on with every pound of weight he had. He had no idea how long it went on, felt the passage of time only in the sweat that began to pour into his eyes and onto the mat, slippery when he tried to pitch his weight with increasingly shaky hands. Eames constricted around him, cutting off the circulation to his numb arms, bearing down with his hips, his chest pressed against Arthur’s back, his knees pressing brutally against the back of Arthur’s. 

He panted against Arthur’s shoulder blades, rhythmic and even -- he wasn’t tired at all.

Arthur stopped. For long moments he knelt on the mat, mouth open and breathing heavily through his nose, hair hanging down in his face and matted with sweat, every muscle quivering with exhaustion and humiliation. 

The crowd was waiting.

Arthur slapped on the mat twice, weak and uncoordinated. 

He stared up at Saito and did not feel any particular shame. Saito meant nothing to him, as he meant nothing to Saito. Saito would give him the thumbs down any second, and he would die here, at the hands of this dog of the man who’d run him into the ground.

Saito’s hand wavered in and out of focus, curling loosely into a fist with the thumb held out. 

It rose as Arthur blinked wearily, the whole world changed in that one moment of blindness.

Eames let go of him, although he did not move away from between Arthur’s legs. “Easy now, love.” 

Arthur was so fucking tired. He bent down against the sweat-slick mat as Eames nuzzled the knobs of his spine, blood dripping hotly onto his back, rolling down his ribs like melted wax. He had to fight the temptation to lie down altogether until Eames murmured, “We all know your proper use.”

He bucked up again, even though it was stupid and pointless and getting him nowhere, had him drifting in and out of consciousness as Eames spread his knees apart, fussed with Arthur’s fly and pulled his pants down. He heard distantly the sound of Eames shedding his own pants, the slap of lubrication being tossed into his hand and then the slick wet sound of it being applied that Arthur was so familiar with and had never experienced from this angle.

They all had to do it, sooner or later. It wasn’t a choice, except inasmuch as any man chose to be in the Pit.

He wanted to clench against it, knew there was no other defense left to him but needed that last painful, pointless shield against this. But he was so tired his legs had already gone numb, left him slack and open as Eames forced the thick head of his cock up Arthur’s ass, paused there just to let Arthur panic weakly. He’d barely started and already it felt like a fist. Arthur couldn’t move, couldn’t lift his arms or head, could barely keep his eyes open as Eames slowly slashed into him, the grip around Arthur’s hips tightening as his cock sank in deeper.

He collapsed the first time Eames thrust, his sharp hips smacking into Arthur’s ass. Eames followed him down, spread Arthur’s legs wide and slowly increased his rhythm as Arthur loosened around him, helpless against the invasion. Eames’ hand tightened in Arthur’s hair, hanging lank and sweaty in his face. He tilted Arthur’s head back until Arthur had to spread his arms to brace himself, crane his neck and arch his back to look at the first man who’d ever beaten him.

Eames spat in his face.

The crowd was silent -- or maybe roaring, Arthur couldn’t tell. He could hear the wet slap of Eames’ balls against his hole, the squeak of the mat as his knees rubbed back and forth on it, jerked by Eames’ thrusts. He could hear the rough pant of Eames’ breath, his occasional strained grunt. But he would hear these things no matter what was sounding all around him, could feel them imprinted in him like Eames’ fucking _cock_.

Eames didn’t fuck him. Arthur had fucked men, had sent them limping off to the showers to clean off a stain they’d never get rid of. Eames _worked_ him, used him like a sponge he was wringing out, twisted him with his cock up Arthur’s ass. He wound tighter the more Eames stretched him, pulled Arthur back by his hips until Arthur’s knees were bent under his shoulders, his ass thrust out for Eames to shove into. His arms were numb, his knees tingling distantly as they cramped. His breath jerked out of him to the rhythm of Eames’ cock, the smack of Eames’ hips traveling all the way up to his diaphragm.

He could control that, Arthur thought with hazy desperation. It made him mewl to try, the only way to slow his breath to trap it in his voice box. Arthur closed his eyes as he heard those sounds, but it didn’t help at all, didn’t drown out those sad little whimpers or Eames’ breathless chuckle as he leaned into towards Arthur’s neck, didn’t soften Eames’ cock inside, slick and thick and fucking him. 

The pain eased when Arthur breathed out, kept his body softer, let Eames drive further into him. 

“Good boy,” Eames murmured against the nape of his neck, fucked him with his low voice that vibrated all the way down to Arthur’s fingers, twitching helplessly against the mat. “Open up.”

He slowed, pressed his balls firmly against Arthur’s ass with each thrust, rolled his hips every time to remind Arthur of how hard he was getting fucked, how much cock he’d forced up Arthur’s ass. His cock was ferociously hard, flopping obscenely back and forth in time with Eames’ thrusts -- from the suffocation, not this, not this burn inside him that was slowly, methodically melting all his senses. 

“I knew you’d like it,” Eames murmured into the nape of his neck. “Just needed to be loosened up a bit.”

His hand crept down to Arthur’s cock. Arthur tried to bat him away, succeeded only in throwing himself off balance as he waved his hand weakly. Eames worked his cock, slicked only with sweat. His hand burned against Arthur’s cock, tight and stinging and utterly, devastatingly perfect.

Arthur choked when he came, even though there was nothing in his throat, nothing in him at all.

Eames stood, left the cool air to rush back over Arthur’s body as he peeled himself off where sweat had stuck them together. Arthur could feel the blood rush up to meet the air, bruises already purpling under his skin. 

The mat was warm as he collapsed onto it.

He was unconscious before they even came to drag him out of the ring.

\+ + +

Saito offered him a drink as Arthur sat up, blinking against the light. He waved the glass away. His limbs were still heavy with painkillers, his senses as muffled as the rest of him, bandaged and drugged. They were in Arthur’s room; Saito sat next to the bed he was propped up on. Arthur did not remember being brought in.

Saito was waiting.

The memories came back fuzzy through the lens of drugs and humiliation. “I lost.”

“You did.” 

Saito did not sound unkind -- Arthur had always admired that in him. He opened his mouth to apologize, but apologies were useless, and it wasn’t regret he was feeling.

He did feel something. Eames had done something to him.

Saito held up the collar, and Arthur bared his neck as it was once more buckled on. It was different this time, more constricting and oddly painful. Eames must have bruised his neck when he choked him, Arthur realized. The collar pressed directly against the bruises.

“It won’t happen again,” he said hoarsely, when Saito was done.

Saito’s inflection gave nothing away: “I know.”

\+ + +

Dom called him four days later. Arthur picked up even after he saw who was calling, and blamed exhaustion: even in the numb haze of the pain meds he hadn’t been sleeping well.

“Arthur,” Dom said, gentle and miserable. “I heard you lost.”

“I did.”

The phone crackled.

“Are you okay?” Dom asked.

“How are the kids?”

“They’re fine. Do -- do you want to speak to them?”

It had been five years since Arthur had seen them, since he’d read them a story because Dom was too much of a wreck to be up for it and tucked them in -- five years since Saito had taken on Arthur’s unique services in exchange for a truly enormous amount of debt. That number had barely changed, even with all of Arthur’s victories, but they would have. James would be nine now, probably the spitting image of his father. And Philippa would finally have started to grow into her mother’s low voice and laughing eyes.

Arthur hung up.

\+ + +

It took him a week before he could walk properly, and he spent another three with Stephen fussing over him. He was an extremely capable doctor, and was relentlessly devoted to keeping Arthur as close to immortal as possible. Arthur pondered it on occasion, more as he shifted between drug-induced patches of sleep. It was because of Arthur that Cobb was raising Stephen’s grandchildren, instead of making a living in the pits or -- more likely, since Cobb was no soldier -- long dead and buried. But Stephen always treated Arthur like he was a body Stephen was preparing for a funeral, needlessly gentle and incomprehensibly somber.

In between drugs and physical therapy, there was plenty of time to find out the latest on Eames and Fischer. Before the fight, all of the public information on Fischer had been on his fall from grace, his father’s death and the quicksand death of his company afterwards. Fischer’s decadently pretty face had made the tabloids a few times, but he’d dropped almost completely off the radar for five years afterwards.

Now, only weeks after he’d shown up with Eames in the ring, he graced the covers of everything from _The Sydney Morning Herald_ and _The Wall Street Journal_ to _Vanity Fair_ and _People Magazine_. The reporters speculated wildly about the prodigal son’s return, his meteoric rise and aggressive, unprecedented corporate expansion. None of the articles had any conclusions about the reason for Fischer’s success beyond his name and his pretty face.

Arthur was at a loss as well. The only vaguely business-related moves Fischer was making were appointments in the ring, and that couldn’t explain it. Bets in the ring could be large, even disastrously so, and involve some of the biggest names in a dozen industries, but the only thing one could ever win was social credit. Bets were anonymous, the ceremonies formal.

There was even less information on Eames. He had no record outside of the ring, no history in it before his match with Arthur. Whoever had stopped up his records had done a good job. Arthur was not usually hindered in his investigations.

He hunted down information on Eames’ matches since the one with Arthur, all dramatic wins. He had a tendency to kill by strangling, and he always let his opponents hit him wherever they wanted before he took them down. Everyone else he’d fought had died.

Arthur got well as quick as he could.

He trained in Saito’s personal facilities until he could ably get out the door and then had one of Saito’s chauffeurs take him down to 528.

528 was best known as a way to establish reputation before entering the ring for the first time. It was exclusive: only fighters gained membership, and only those with masters wealthy enough for the exorbitant fees. Given that any master worth their salt would have their own private training grounds, 528 was more form than function. Arthur went there only on occasion, to observe technique.

The entire first floor was filled with practice mats, and loose rings formed around sparring sessions. Arthur ignored them; there were private rooms on the upper floors. Arthur found one, wrapped his hands meticulously with protective tape, and set in. He started with light, controlled jabs, the kind that made a fighter angry, that made them stupid. From there he dropped his aim, dispersed his punches along the bag with metric precision -- ribs, throat, eyes, groin. Eventually the protective tape shredded and fell.

Arthur hit until blood dripped down his cracked knuckles and spattered against his hands.


	2. Chapter 2

The fourth time Arthur came to that private room in 528, Eames was there.

He’d traded the expensive pleated trousers of the Pit for a stained t-shirt and loose work out pants, although his hair still had the stiff part he’d seen before. He was hitting the bag Arthur was accustomed to, all the blood cleaned off. He snapped into it with ragged knuckles, punched with both fists, one after the other, his entire torso shifting with each blow. He hit the same spot every time, while the bag rattled and jumped under his fists.

Arthur made no sound but a convulsive swallow, sense memory of Eames’ hands constricting his throat, but it was enough to make Eames turn. His face was covered in bruises, his lips split -- they were all fresh, but there were faint tinges of yellow beneath that Arthur knew he had left. He cracked his knuckles, remembering.

Eames wiped blood off his mouth, then smiled and sent more blood running down his chin. “Fancy meeting you here.”

His voice made Arthur’s vision tunnel and then clarify, banishing the memories from his head and leaving a soothing blank. When Arthur spoke his voice was cool: “This room is occupied.”

Eames cracked his neck from side to side, still smiling, cheeks crinkled with it. “Maybe we can share.”

“I don’t play well with others.”

“I’m not here to play.”

“Then why are you here?”

Eames looked him up and down, casually inspecting. “Wanted to take a second look at the merchandise.” 

As if they both hadn’t gone up for sale, been sold to the highest bidder. He turned and began to walk away, Eames’ gaze prickling up his spine.

“They say, Arthur, that you’re the only fighter who got a private sale.”

Arthur paused. It was the first time he’d said Arthur’s name. 

“Skipped the auction block entirely, even got to name your price.”

With Cobol on his back he’d needed a sponsor immediately, couldn’t risk waiting around at the auction rings for someone to come along with enough cash. “The privileges of skill -- nothing you’d understand.”

“Of course not. I’m just the man who made you his bitch in the ring.”

Arthur turned back to face him. “You’re not a man. You’re a rabid dog with a big cock.”

Eames traced his own lips with his finger, teasing. “Miss it, do you. I bet I could make you come twice next time.”

“What’s the matter, can’t get it up without a fight?”

“No shame in enjoying your work.”

He forced his hands to loosen from the fists they’d curled into. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

“Then please, do enlighten me.”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh, tsk, now you’re just being coy.”

Arthur forced himself to loosen his hands from the tight fists they’d curled into. “I’ve met people like you, Mr. Eames.” 

“There’s no one quite like me, darling.”

“Lots of people pretend they like it.”

“Who’s pretending?”

“They never last long.”

Eames stepped forward, his smile gone from his lips but drifted into his eyes, bright and manic. “Do you know what I think? You never named any price at all -- just gave it up for free. Because you like to pretend you’re above your job, but deep down you love it just as much as I do.”

Arthur had an eye for detail that had saved his life on more than one occasion, but his most useful skill by far was his ability to tunnel his vision, to turn an immediate enemy into a remote obstacle he could contemplate carefully. 

But it wasn’t working here; Eames refused to recede into the distance. 

Arthur licked dry lips. “You’re going to die very soon, Mr. Eames. And when you do, no one will give a shit.”

“You will. You want it to be you, with your hands around my neck, showing me what you’ve got.”

“No.”

Eames lowered his head. “You want to fight me.”

Arthur’s fists were tight and curled again.

Eames stepped closer. Arthur refused to back away.

“You want it as much as I do.” Eames came closer still, his breath hot and familiar. Arthur remembered it on his neck, on his back, hot as Eames’ blood dribbling onto him and his hand on Arthur’s cock.

This time he hit Eames in the throat. Eames coughed blindly, and Arthur lunged.

He threw Eames to the ground with a tackle aimed low, landed hard and messy against his hips. He sprang forward before Eames could trap him there with his thighs, and laid into whatever he could reach. He had no strategy, no audience, no ring or ritual. His knuckles were bleeding all over Eames’ face, painting him with every stinging punch. 

A sound reached him dimly, through the wet smack of flesh on flesh and the roar of his breath: Eames was laughing. He lashed out and Arthur tensed to block the blow but Eames was reaching behind him, hands around his neck to pull him down and close. His fingers wormed their way under the collar, pressing new bruises into the skin as he yanked Arthur forward. He smacked into Eames’ bloodied face, jerked away from the hot slide of Eames’ lips and the hard brush of his nose. It was impossible to move with Eames’ arms constricted around him.

Eames rolled suddenly and Arthur went with him, wound up flat on his back with Eames on top of him. Arthur tried to roll again but Eames anticipated him, shifted his weight in counterpoint. He still held Arthur too close, his hands wrapped around Arthur’s neck, their faces pressed together, so that even though his hands were free he was still trapped by Eames’ weight. His breath came short and stuttered, all of his senses hyper-stimulated so hard Arthur panicked at the idea he might pass out. He was trapped as surely as he had been before, and he didn’t even have the shield of surprise and exhaustion to hide behind. Eames’ stubbled cheek against his stung worse than a slap: he felt like he’d been pulled from a cocoon, from a womb, everything agonizingly alien.

Eames murmured, “I knew you’d like it.”

Arthur froze.

Eames smelled like he had in the ring, like Arthur had any time he’d won and had to get it up. It was worse now, with Eames on top of him. Arthur couldn’t breathe and the more he tried the worse it got. Eames was rubbing down on him, pressing his own dick against Arthur’s hip.

“I win,” Eames murmured into his ear. His rhythm was slow, lazy -- teasing.

Arthur squeezed his arm up, tried to snap it down onto Eames’ collarbone, but Eames grabbed his arm with his left hand and pinned it above his head.

“Say I win,” Eames insisted, just barely brushing the clothed outline of his cock against Arthur’s hip.

Arthur hated him. He bit his tongue and then his lip as the words surged up his throat, pushed at his mouth like they could force their way out.

“Say it,” Eames growled.

Arthur said: “Shut up.”

He twisted as Eames grabbed his face, couldn’t escape the clamp of Eames’ fingers around his jaw, the blunt edge of his palm pressed against Arthur’s throat. The thumb of his other hand pressed against Arthur’s lips, invasive and irresistible.

Arthur opened his mouth, lapped at the salty sweat on Eames’ finger. 

The noise Eames made was an alligator, lurking under the surface.

Arthur bit down hard.

Eames jerked his hand away and shook it out, rolled off Arthur like he wasn’t hard as fucking rock -- like Arthur wasn’t. Watching Eames lick his finger clean wasn’t helping, wet and obscene. Eames said between licks, “You’re going to be a very worthwhile purchase, I think.”

“You can’t even afford yourself.”

Eames smiled. “Next week. You know where to find me.”

\+ + +

“You’ve got to take better bloody care of yourself,” Stephen muttered as he dabbed at Arthur’s knuckles. “You’ve got a match in two weeks.”

“I could win without either of my hands,” Arthur said, because he had once, when a fighter had managed to pin them and forgotten about his legs.

Eames had barely noticed all of his kicks, had rolled him out flat like so much dough.

“But Mr. Saito would prefer you have the use of both.”

There was real anxiety in Stephen’s voice. Arthur tried, with the last vestiges of good spirit the Pit had left in him, to hear concern for him in it. He knew Stephen didn’t give a shit what Saito wanted. They both knew that if Arthur died, Saito had agreed that Cobb’s and Arthur’s debt died with him. But he wondered how comforting that was, when once Arthur’s fighting shape and willingness had been all that stood between his grandchildren growing up with their father or not.

Stephen nodded at the fresh ring of bruises Eames had left, half-hidden under the collar.

Arthur didn’t bother to lie.

There would be no more fights with Eames. It was unprofessional and distracting. But a rematch between them in the Pit was inevitable; Saito would want to correct the record. A match meant preparation, and preparation meant research.

There was plenty to find on Eames’ matches after Arthur: high stakes, decisive victories. He chose his form to fit the function, according to Arthur’s sources, snapped one man’s spine thirty seconds in and toyed with another for hours. He had no distinctive style except a flippant brutality, and an unrepentant pleasure in his craft.

On Eames’ past there was nothing, even for a man with Arthur’s considerable connections and talent. There was no first name, and his paper trail went dead a few weeks before Arthur’s match with him. The most he could find, after several underhanded questions and hefty bribes, was footage of Eames in the Shallows, the poor man’s Pits, where anyone could fight and fucking was never an option. Eames was easy to pick out even in the grainy footage, his handsome smile and tattooed chest, the familiar fists he smashed into his opponent’s head.

Extrapolation was not impossible: a felon might have the fighting skills Eames did, and a con man in particular would have Eames’ shallow charm, as well as the ability to make himself a new man whenever he wanted. Arthur had never heard of anyone fitting his description, but that might indicate skill more than obscurity.

Arthur did not like hypotheticals, loose ends, or obstacles, and Eames was all three.

Fortunately, Arthur was in the business of solving problems.

Ariadne picked up on the first ring. “Arthur?”

“I need a favor.”

He waited through the expected pause: he rarely asked for anything, and never since that one brief kiss. “I’m listening.”

“Could you get me into an appointment where I wasn’t scheduled to fight?”

“Saito wouldn’t like it.”

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

“I could.” She puzzled through another silence. “I will -- whose appointment?”

Arthur watched Eames choke a man to death, his face so twisted he appeared to have transformed it entirely. “Robert Fischer.”

\+ + +

It was the first match he’d gone to without being scheduled to fight. Yusuf met him at the door, his information source and a chaperone. Arthur was notorious for being allowed to walk off leash, but even the most flippant new money hedonists would balk at him showing up to a match on his own. They got a few arch looks as they found their seats. Arthur had faced his share even before he’d put the collar on, and let them roll off like so many punches. Yusuf didn’t seem to care, and he could afford not to: his booming drug development had left him richer than everyone else in the stands. He’d been done less legitimate business before that, and kept a finger pressed firmly on the pulse of the trade.

“I was excited when Ariadne called,” Yusuf said as they sat in a spot close to the ring but away from the other spectators, where they couldn’t be overheard. “I’d wanted an excuse to come to one of Fischer’s fights since I figured out his new business tactic. Want to help me place a bet?”

“No.” Never again. “What can you tell me?”

“You know the opponent?”

Arthur did, although he’d never faced him. “Roman, one ninety pounds, left handed, old ankle injury, extensive krav maga training.”

Yusuf chuckled. “Typical Arthur, going straight for the boring part. His owner is Lee White, owner of FCI. Ring any bells?”

“He’s one of Saito’s investors.”

“Exactly. Smaller than a lot of his others, but bigger than the ones Fischer’s faced yet.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Guess.”

“I’m not here for games.”

“All work and no play, man. But fine: Fischer isn’t playing for money. He’s playing for shares.”

“In FCI?”

“No, no, that’s the clever part -- in Saito’s company. Every one of his matches since that first with Saito has been with Saito’s investors, and every match he’s played has been for shares.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Only unprecedented. Fischer’s been snapping them up as quick as he can schedule his appointments. That pit bull of his --”

“Eames.” He was walking down into the pit, his tailored clothes shifting over bunching muscle. His agent stood behind him, a tall blonde woman. Fischer was in one of the two owner’s boxes, head tilted and perched on his hand.

“Yeah. What a fucking beast.” Yusuf sounded impressed.

Eames, in stark profile against the dark ring, looked bored. He cracked his neck from side to side like a cat batting a mouse; there was none of the spark Arthur had seen before, the gleaming anticipation. The entire scene left Arthur displaced: Fischer and his impossible stakes, Arthur next to the ring when he should be inside it, Eames apathetic and barely focused. Arthur touched his collar, traced the buckle. This had been a bad idea from the start. He’d seen Eames’ technique firsthand, and watching again was a waste of time and energy. Yusuf had given him valuable information, and he needed time to research it further. He should go, get started right away.

Eames chose that moment to turn, as surely as though someone had tapped him on the shoulder, and find Arthur watching. 

Arthur raised his eyebrows.

Eames winked. 

Roman lunged. 

Nothing to do but soldier on, now that Eames had seen him. He watched Eames dance away, while Roman chased him around the ring, getting only the occasional swipe and grazing blow. Arthur didn’t understand -- it was poor tactics, poor showmanship, and not the fight he’d remembered. Eames had taken every hit he’d dished out the last time, and any fighter knew that the crowd liked to see blood flow. They twirled their drinks and tapped their fingers against the arms of their chairs.

Only Fischer looked unconcerned, chin perched on his hand, as though he were contemplating a map instead of watching a fight.

“What’s he playing at?” Yusuf asked.

“Playing.” Eames was _playing_. He was smirking as he jumped around the ring, while his opponent grew increasingly infuriated and the wealthy sadists watching him started churning the waters.

“Something wrong with that?” Yusuf was staring at him now.

Arthur looked down, realized he was at the edge of his seat, the arms creaking under the force of his grip. He felt hot, sweat starting to gather at the nape of his neck, kiss down his back. He uncurled his fingers, forced himself to lean back. “It’s unusual.”

It was insane. Eames finally engaged, let Roman snap at his ribs and then slapped him across the face -- open-handed, pointless. Roman’s back was to him, so Arthur saw only Eames’ slouch, the predatory shutter of his eyes.

Roman jumped away, and Eames let him. He tried to circle, clearly trying to reevaluate his strategy, but Eames kept his scope of movement limited. He forced him into a hemicycle, so that Arthur could never see more than Roman’s profile -- so that Eames never showed his back to Arthur.

Eames looked up at Arthur again, licked his lips.

He was _staging_ this. 

Arthur wanted to kill him, shuddered with it, right down to his balls.

Yusuf was saying something next to him, but Arthur didn’t bother to listen. Roman’s chest was heaving as he lunged over and over, just like Arthur had, at the end when he’d been exhausted. Eames batted him down again and again. His control was so obvious from up here in the stands. There was no chance for Roman, and there’d been no chance for him. Eames wasn’t something that could be beaten in a fight.

And Arthur _would_ beat him.

He’d jerked off after their aborted rematch in 528, with the taste of Eames’ skin still in his mouth as the bruises Eames had left started to darken. 

He wondered feverishly what Eames had done after he’d left, what marks Arthur had left on him.

Eames finally made his move. He threw himself forward, tackled Roman gracelessly and threw him to the ground, heedless of the punches that caught him in the eye and jaw. Roman was long and lean -- the same build as Arthur, as dozens of fighters making the circuits these days. Eames had him by maybe twenty pounds, but pinned him like a wiggling puppy, as though his ferocious glee had a weight of its own.

Arthur remembered it well. Eames was dripping sweat, and every breathless huff was hot and laughing on top of him. He was barely conscious, drifting with pain and bleak acceptance. He could feel the exhaustion creeping up into him again, stealing and stinging up his spine.

His cock was so hard it ached.

Eames licked up Roman’s back, one long swipe, perfectly arranged so that Arthur could watch him cover every spinal vertebra, catch the shocking pink of his tongue.

The last time hadn’t been like that. He remembered the snap of Eames’ bone under his elbow, the way Eames’ breath had caught when Arthur had pressed his cock back up at him. The memory superimposed itself over the ring before him. He’d been so fucking angry.

What did he feel now?

White raised his thumb. 

Eames slapped Roman’s ass good-naturedly, beamed up at Arthur with a grin that turned his lean face round. It fell in the next second, left Eames’ face blank and military cool.

A hand landed on Arthur’s shoulder.

Arthur tensed in the split second between perceiving the touch and recognizing who it was, and he knew Saito could feel the flinch. He turned and looked up -- just in time for Saito to clip the leash to his neck.

“Mr. Yusuf,” Saito said, eyes on Arthur. “Always a pleasure.”

“Been a long time.” Yusuf rallied impressively, gesturing wide. “Why don’t you take a seat?”

“We’re leaving.”

He didn’t yank Arthur away; Saito was never crude. But he walked just quickly enough that Arthur couldn’t keep up. There was no slack in the leash, but Arthur looked back anyway as he left.

Eames was watching him, clutching at Roman’s hips spasmodically.

Arthur turned away.

Just before the door closed, he heard the wet snap of a man’s neck being broken, and the delightedly shocked roars of the crowd.

Saito led him out to the car, didn’t let go even as they got in and sped off. The leash stretched out between them, thrumming.

Saito said, “I let you take on Cobb’s debt because I wanted a fighter.”

“I killed your last fighter in eighteen seconds.” He remembered it clearly, untinged by the loss and desperation that had driven him to make his offer in the first place.

“You’ve served me very well,” Saito agreed. “But lately you seem distracted. First the loss, now this. What am I to do with you?”

Arthur had no answer for that, so he asked, “Fischer isn’t playing for money. He’s collecting shares in your company.”

“I’m aware. He played me for nothing the last time. Next time will be different.”

Arthur had lost for the first time when there hadn’t even been a bet riding on it. “Why does he want you so badly?”

“You know that Fischer lost the company after the death of his father, and it’s now a piece of the market I control.”

He should have guessed. “You took it from him.”

Saito smiled.

“And now he wants it back.” That explained his betting choices.

“He wants a lot more than that. Fischer is a dangerous man, Arthur, and if he can use anything against you, he will. He will exploit you to take his revenge on me, and his fighter will do so because it amuses him. Do not allow yourself to become compromised.”

“I’ve got it under control.”

“Good.” Saito’s expression did not change. “See that you keep it that way.”

\+ + +

Three days after he had witnessed Eames in the Pits, and a week after Eames had issued his challenge, Arthur returned to 528. He arrived an half hour after he was accustomed to, and stopped at the first floor instead of brushing past it. The practice mats sprawled all over the open space, and a few loose rings of fighters had formed in various corners. He recognized a few faces from appointments: Richman, Homer, Kang. Others he’d researched but had not yet met in the ring, like Pena and Marcus, but most were unknown. Few fighters went long without losing a match, and fewer still had owners who cared enough about their investment to bother with the indignity of watching their player get fucked. Fighters were very expensive and even more disposable.

Kang was the first one to notice him. He’d been one of Arthur’s early fights, when the scandal of his failed con with Cobb and Mal had still been rippling through the crowd at every appointment. Kang invited him into the ring with the usual curt nod and low expectations, and then raised his eyebrows questioningly when Arthur stepped forward.

He rallied quickly. Time and training had matured Kang’s technique, and an unprofessional context made him almost playful. Arthur was shocked to find that it felt less like training than like dancing, the few awkward times Mal had forced him to take her hand and waist. That was a dangerous thought, more so than Kang’s many grappling holds, so Arthur did not prolong the match. Kang tapped out gracefully, and the other fighters stepped up.

After Kang came Richman, and then Marcus, and several other fighters he’d never met professionally. Arthur had never before offered anything but a critical gaze at 528, and he knew there’d be no shortage of fighters who wanted to test the waters. Saito would probably be displeased about it, when he heard, and Ariadne even more so. They would come around; Arthur’s loss had cast a shadow over his record, and it would take more to shake it off than a few wins in the ring. He needed to let his opponents see that he was every inch the fighter they had always heard of, and this was the most efficient method.

He pictured Ariadne’s face when he explained, wondered if she’d take it with the taciturn shrewdness her business had forced her to adopt, or if he could surprise a smile and even a curse out of her. She always used to swat at him when she smiled, hiding her girlish grin behind a file. He faced off Pena with renewed energy at the thought, threw him repeatedly and meticulously. By silent agreement there were no serious injuries inflicted on the mats, so disorienting throws were the easiest way to win. Pena had extensive training in aikido, and he was one of the best, so Arthur lost himself in focus. The other fighters watched critically and attentively, but none of them wanted him destroyed the same way the audiences of the pit did. They were easy to ignore.

Eames arrived when Arthur was in the middle of a tumble. 

The floor rushed up to meet him, caressed his spine as he rolled and came gracefully to his feet. Arthur turned, and found him as though magnetized.

Eames stood in the corner. The others had given him a wide berth, and a significant silence rippled through them as they studiously ignored him. No fighter held another’s obligations against him, but Eames had killed even after White had given the thumbs up. White would have demanded compensation, and there might have been a few rumbles amongst the Pit organizers about disqualification for Fischer. 

Consequences were more severe amongst the fighters.

Arthur should be ignoring him too, but he could not shake an awareness of Eames no matter what he did or where he moved. He pinned Pena and held him for tap out, but when he stood up there was no rush of victory, not even the distant satisfaction of a job completed. Under Eames’ watchful stare Pena felt like an answer -- an offering.

He’d intended this. Homer swung wide with his right and Arthur caught his elbow from the inside. It had seemed the neatest way to refuse Eames’ challenge without running away. 

“One more round?” Homer asked. He was tall and slim, the current style, with a scarred face that advertised his brutal methods. Arthur had won handily, but he’d relied on speed and energy, both of which he’d nearly exhausted. Prudence dictated that he refuse.

There was also Eames to consider.

Arthur took up his stance. “Sure.”

Even in sweat-stained workout clothes and a smattering of cuts and bruises, Eames still projected a suave authority. Arthur could not tell if it was a relic of his life before the fights, or if being a fighter had given it to him: Arthur had never met another man so comfortable in this element. Where the other fighters had adopted a constant catalogue of all of their surroundings, Eames stood fixated, his stance casual. He was the only man in the room without a collar.

Arthur looked down and saw that Homer was slapping weakly at the mat, his face red with strain and lack of oxygen. Arthur released his hands from Homer’s throat and wondered when he’d started choking him.

He stood.

Homer rolled away from him, and got a hand up from one of the others, all of whom were studiously ignoring him. He’d fucked up, pushed too far. Only Eames was still staring, head tilted, one hand on his hip. The other he held up, pointed towards the ceiling. He held the pose for a moment, eloquent as an ancient philosopher, and then he was leaving, swishing in a way Arthur wanted to ignore and memorize at the same time.

Eames could fuck himself. He headed for the showers, downstairs instead of up, and made the spray scalding. Usually his showers were kept cold, better for the skin and circulation, but now he needed the heat. He poured out handfuls of soap, rubbed it in until he was red and itching. He concentrated on the methodical scrub of his body, the dirt and sweat and dead cells, so he did not have to think or feel anything else. Exhaustion was stealing up on him insidiously, slow but indomitable. He shouldn’t have taken that last fight -- shouldn’t have come back here, shouldn’t have stayed when he found Eames the first time. He should have tried to convince Saito to call the match when Fischer changed fighters. He should have convinced Mal and Cobb that the con was shit, and there was no way it could have gone off without a hitch. He should have known how it would fall to pieces, and what would happen when it did, and he should have been there when she died.

Through the blur of water and memory, he realized someone was at the door.

Eames was watching him.

He was leaning against the doorway: his head lowered, eyes narrowed. He smiled as Arthur noticed him, one side of his mouth tilting up, the other flat and serious. 

Throat. Floating ribs. Liver. Eyes. Knees. Eames would fall if Arthur were fast enough, checked him with his hip at just the right angle. He knew Eames’ weight now, the way he carried himself. He’d have a much better chance this time.

“Dirty little thing.” Eames stalked forward until he was standing just outside the range of the spray. His cock was hard, outlined under his loose workout pants.

Arthur could run.

Eames continued with one small, deliberate step that put him only inches away from Arthur -- so close Arthur could smell him, feel the heat coming off him even under the burning water. Arthur wanted so badly to tear him down.

He couldn’t do that with his fists. The match with Roman had taught him better than that.

Reaching for Eames’ cock was a gamble, and he had the other hand curled into a fist as he smeared the flat of his hand down the outline of Eames’ cock, groped his heavy balls through the thin material of his pants. Eames lunged forward hungrily, but Arthur was ready for him. He sidestepped, guided Eames by the hip and slammed him hard against the wall. The chuff of air told Arthur he’d winded him, and he compounded it by falling forward hard on Eames again, so that every line of muscle he smacked into was breathlessly tensed. Eames pulled him in anyway, cupped insidiously gentle hands around Arthur’s ass and pinned him against his flexing stomach, his hairy chest, the relentless line of his cock.

But gripping Arthur left Eames vulnerable -- wet throat, half-lowered lashes, his slicked hair going loose under the spray, slippery as Arthur gripped it. Even a snarl couldn’t twist Eames’ lips out of their softness. Arthur bit at them, sucked Eames’ tongue out and then held that between his teeth. He could kill Eames right now, bite his tongue in two and suck the life right out of him.

Instead he rutted hard, one thigh between Eames’, his pants wet and scratching against Arthur’s cock. He pulled at Eames’ broad, sloping shoulders, licked his tongue raw against the scruff on Eames’ neck and then bit a collar onto him, uneven teeth marks red and angry around his neck. Eames writhed noisily, louder than the shower, nipped haphazardly over Arthur’s lips, his jaw, down his neck and along his shoulders, sucking bruises even on top of the bones. His hands prowled up and down Arthur’s back, mocked the curling short hairs on the back of his neck -- gentle.

It was incongruous; Arthur hated it. He grabbed Eames’ thick biceps, pinned his arms against the wall and knew Eames was letting him. The realization gutted even as it had him coming fast and thick against the wet chafe of Eames’ hips. Eames’ teeth stung against his neck and he replied in kind, filled his mouth with Eames’ skin as he blurted out his orgasm.

He came back to himself quickly, drained and pissed and fucking exhilarated. He’d had Eames, still had him -- Eames wasn’t lashing out, moving away from his scrutiny. He was leaning more comfortably against the wall, shoving his pants down and taking his cock in hand. He stroked like he spoke, slow and conversational: “That leash would never come off.”

Arthur wormed his hand under Eames’, stole his rhythm as Eames let go altogether. “What?”

“If I bought you,” Eames clarified, panting as Arthur tightened his grip. “I’d keep you.”

“If I bought you, I’d put you back in the wild,” Arthur countered, twisting his hand around the thick bar of Eames’ cock. “But first I’d have you neutered.”

Eames blew him a kiss, foppish as if he really did have the money to buy Arthur -- as if he wasn’t bucking breathlessly up into Arthur’s hand. “Give it your best shot next week, but don’t make me chase you again.”

Arthur gave Eames one last teasing jerk, just to feel Eames groan. 

Then he flicked Eames’ cock back at him, like a cigarette butt. “You want that taken care of, you can suck my dick next week.”

Eames grabbed his arm as he turned to leave. “I could do that right now.”

Arthur twisted fruitlessly against Eames’ hold, snapped, “Let go of me.”

Eames loosened his grip but bared his teeth. “Little late for that.”

Arthur jerked his arm free and marched off.

“Next week,” Eames called out to Arthur’s retreating back. “But be on on time.”

In the desert, he had spent a useless while being afraid of his job. Basic training and general active duty were nothing compared to the constant torture of knowing the next step could be his last, and no one would warn him or save him. For a long three weeks he didn’t eat and didn’t sleep and didn’t feel anything but numbing fear, until one day Arthur had been cleaning his gun and thought: _fuck it_.

Fuck it.

He wasn’t late again.

\+ + +

“Going to have to take it all now, love.”

Eames fucked into him, on his knees behind Arthur with his cock up Arthur’s ass. Arthur groaned, hoarse from Eames’ cock in his throat earlier. He’d thrown Arthur onto his back and gagged him with cock until Arthur’s eyes had watered and his throat had convulsed -- until Arthur had blinked back the tears and swallowed until Eames’ hips spasmed, pulled back and licked the tender skin of Eames’ balls until he mewled. Eames had gotten the message eventually, maneuvered Arthur’s body around and inhaled Arthur’s cock like the dedicated cocksucker he was. The first orgasm was always a blindside, left Arthur sensitive and squirming as Eames licked the blood back into Arthur’s cock, semen dripping from those too pink lips.

“Take it,” Eames muttered, pulled Arthur down hard. “Fucking split yourself on it.”

“Shut up.” Arthur’s voice was scraped in his throat, pulled taut as his hips. He braced himself as much as he could with his legs splayed around Eames thighs, pushed down and up on Eames’ cock, needing it out of him and in him with equal fervor.

He’d watched dozens of Eames’ matches by now, with Saito’s tacit disapproval, and all had ended with a kill. The crowd had learned their lesson from Roman. Now very investor preferred to thumbs down their fighter rather than suffer the indignity of watching Eames kill him anyway while Fischer looked on, mad and beatific. It made Arthur the only man to ever survive Eames, and Eames the only man to ever beat Arthur. They fucked out their symmetry feverishly, teetering on the precipice of murder every time Eames wrapped his hand around Arthur’s throat, every time Arthur set his teeth against Eames’ cock.

Eames leaned forward until Arthur fell, face down and ass up. Eames’ hand clamped down on the side of his face before he could push up, his hand branded against Arthur’s skin.

“That’s it,” Eames murmured, so low and slurred Arthur wondered if he knew he was talking. Watching his cock sink into Arthur’s ass was Eames’ predilection: he’d bent Arthur over on the mats and in the showers at 528, spread Arthur’s cheeks wide and taken his time. He liked it when Arthur fought, or when he was too hazy to do anything more than spread his legs, loved it best when Arthur threw him down and rode him until he was half laughing with pain, hips bruised and dick chafed raw.

Three months of Eames’ cock and he still choked as Eames threw his weight down hard against him, pressed his balls up tight against Arthur’s hole, his hips jutting into Arthur’s ass as he stilled. His hands ran up and down Arthur’s ribs, over the curve of his hip, down his arm and over his cheek -- surveying. Arthur shuddered, felt his nerves glaze over as his entire body fixated on Eames’ cock, the weight of Eames’ thighs and the scratch of his hair. Eames lapped at Arthur’s sweaty hair with lips and tongue, mouthed down the cords of his neck and nuzzled his collar. The bruises never reached the back of his neck, through the muscle and bones, and Eames seemed to consider it with a personal affront, a challenge to stain with breath and spit.

Eames’ mouth was probably the most dangerous thing about him, obscenely plush against Arthur’s balls, wrapped around Arthur’s asshole as he licked the come that dribbled out. His upper lip was at least as plump as his lower lip, made him look like he was always puckering up for a kiss until he smiled and bared crooked teeth. Eames laughed when Arthur bit at them after, smeared his blood over Arthur’s skin and sucked Arthur’s blood free under it, his lips mockingly, perilously soft.

His cock was never soft, the skin taut as ripe plum and so hot Arthur cursed with just the head inside him, burning and displacing and utterly mesmerizing. 

He lost it entirely as Eames slammed into him, laughed in gasps broken by Eames’ fingers as he ran them over Arthur’s lips, into his mouth. He hitched into moans when Eames dragged over his prostate, when he reached around and wrapped his hand around Arthur’s cock, jerked him off in his own sweat. His other hand slipped down from his mouth to Arthur’s throat, closing warm and threatening around the ring of bruises. The palm of his hand shifted against Arthur’s stubble every time Eames shoved into him -- every time Arthur moved back into it.

“Harder,” Arthur demanded.

Eames pulled Arthur back onto his cock by his throat, back and forth, tight as his other hand around Arthur’s cock. Arthur couldn’t breathe, didn’t want to, didn’t care about anything but Eames moving on him and in him, moving _him_.

Orgasm pulled him taut as piano wires and then snapped, rippled out until he was numb and shivering. Eames fucked towards his own orgasm and Arthur braced himself: against Eames’ cock, against his own exhaustion, against the seductive pull to lie down and take whatever Eames would give him for as long as he wanted. Fucking Eames was always a battle against giving in, made him ride Eames’ cock that much harder just to show he could, that he could take it and keep taking it and remain in control.

Eames came like he heard the thought, blanketed over Arthur’s back, one hand curved under Arthur’s chest and over his shoulder and one still wrapped around his throat. His cock was never bigger than when he came, Arthur’s insides so raw he swore he could feel the hot rush of come inside him. On ripped hands and knees, sore from biting and fucking and being bitten and fucked, what Arthur felt most were Eames’ lips, sable soft against the spot behind Arthur’s left ear.

Eames let him go when he fell, uncurling his fingers reluctantly, as though they’d molded to the shape of Arthur’s constricted throat. Breath was an afterthought as Arthur struggled to come to his senses, to climb back into his own body. “Tired you out, love?”

“Suck my dick.”

“Ask me nicely.”

Arthur rolled up, straddled Eames’ shoulders easily as he lay back. There were a few things Eames fought against, like more than two fingers up his ass or letting Arthur lick his armpits -- ticklish -- but a solid throat fucking was never one of them. “You don’t want to be asked nicely.”

He made Eames lick his own come out of his asshole first, rubbed the blood back into his cock while Eames lapped, his hands roaming restlessly over Arthur’s ass and thighs, punctuated with the occasional slap. He knew by now how long it took to tire that tongue, slid his cock down Eames’ throat just as he was started to reach his breaking point. Eames had never gagged, shoved his head forward, impaled himself, and then moaned as Arthur tangled his fingers in Eames’ hair, surprisingly long without all the product to slick it back, and pushed him back down.

He went slow, shallow while Eames was on his back until Eames’ eyes drifted closed, eyelashes childishly long. He followed so easily when Arthur pulled out and backed off, guided Eames by the air to hands and knees and then slid his cock back down Eames’ throat. Eames liked to feel every long stroke, could go for hours as long as Arthur kept his pace measured, until inevitably his lips cracked and his throat gurgled with spit and pre come, until Arthur lost it, tightened his grip and snapped his hips forward hard. 

The rush of Eames’s sudden shock, his opened eyes and agonized struggling always tore Arthur’s orgasm out of him. Eames thrashed but waited until he’d swallowed every drop to shove Arthur away, wiped off his mouth with a smile on his face as they both flopped back down onto the floor.

Arthur stared at the ceiling, flat on his back, too loose to do anything but breathe for the moment. He listened to Eames’ breathing even out, blinked lazily up at him when Eames rolled over and pet his chest, along his ribs and clavicle, along the scars on his forearms. Arthur allowed it for a while, waited until Eames was properly absorbed with the texture of his skin before he asked, “What do you owe Fischer?”

“Bits of this and that.”

“How much?”

“You looking to buy me?”

The sticking point would be getting Saito to let him go further into debt by borrowing to buy Eames, but Arthur’s debt had always been Saito’s advantage. Most debts were a pittance compared to Arthur’s, what would a bit more be?

Eames laughed as he realized. “What would you do with me, darling? Give me biscuits when I’d been good? Teach me to sit up and beg?”

“Put you down, most likely.” Arthur had not allowed himself to think about that, the same way he didn’t allow himself to think about what he would do if he were ever free. Even for a man like Arthur, some things were better left unplanned.

Eames ran a speculative hand down his stomach. “Saito hasn’t actually listed your price, but the word is that it’s at least one hundred million.”

“Two hundred and fifty.”

“I could have double that in his account by tomorrow morning.”

Eames’ running joke, made every week like clockwork. Arthur flipped him off tiredly.

Eames laughed and gave him a messy kiss on the cheek. “See you next week. And be ready to lose.”

Arthur did.

\+ + +

“Lots of rumors floating around these days,” Ariadne said as she handed Arthur the file for his next appointment. “Ever since the match with Fischer.”

“Anything I should be concerned about?”

“Saito seems concerned.”

“He’ll get over it.”

“And Stephen says these days you’re always bruised,” Ariadne continued, as though Arthur hadn’t said anything. “But you seem happier to me -- so are you?”

“Bruised?”

“Happy.”

Arthur blinked. He was a debt slave who fucked and killed for a living, and spent his free time swallowing come from the man who’d hurt him worst.

Lying on the mats, covered in bruises and Eames’ sweat, the taste of Eames’ cock in his mouth and Eames’ come dripping out his asshole, was the closest to relaxed Arthur had come since Mal had died.

“Never mind,” Ariadne said before he could respond. She smiled at him for the first time since their kiss. Arthur was rusty; he couldn’t tell if it was pity or something else. “It’s none of my business. Forget it.”

Arthur did not forget. He tapped the file against his fingers, thinking about Eames and their first fight, all the fights after. 

Then he requested a meeting with Saito.

\+ + +

Arthur wandered through the labyrinthine halls of his mansion and wondered if Saito was waiting for him to talk public relations. Arthur had won every match since his loss with Eames, but Saito demanded more than excellence in the ring. Fischer’s reputation was growing exponentially with every match Eames won, and Saito considered everything that wasn’t under his control a threat.

Saito invited him to sit next to him, a rare privilege. For the most part Saito was a man to be viewed from below: looking up to him in the pits, or kneeling next to his seat.

“You have continued to see Fischer’s fighter,” Saito began between sips of tea.

Arthur had prepared for that. Eames had become the lynchpin for Fischer’s entire business plan, his loaded die in his plan for revenge against Saito, but that didn’t mean Eames was against them. He had the gloss of old school British military and the polished accent, but Arthur knew him better, saw the con man beneath. “He could be useful.”

“To whom?”

“Fischer needs him, but he doesn’t need Fischer. Let me buy him and Fischer’s entire plan falls to pieces.” Saito did not appreciate crudity, so he didn’t explain why Eames would have any motivation to abandon Fischer’s cause for Saito’s.

“You think he’s a man who can be bought.”

Arthur shrugged. Everyone had his price.

“Fischer has scheduled a meeting with me to discuss his increasing investment in my company. You will attend. If you convince me there that Eames would be a worthwhile asset, I’ll consider my options.”

“Yes, sir.”

Saito moved on from there, asked Arthur what he thought of the latest recruits. Arthur could barely pay attention, found himself back in his private training facility but too keyed up for drills.

He lasted twenty minutes before he found a phone.

Cobb picked up on the second ring. “Dom Cobb.”

“It’s Arthur.”

“Oh.” Cobb could only have paused for a moment, but time with him was always distorted, turned every second on the phone into an eternity. “How are you?”

There were lots of things Arthur could say to that, wanted to say. The words were bubbling up inside him. He said, “Good. Better.”

“Okay,” said Cobb, confused but trying not to show it. “Are things better I spoke to you last?”

Talking with Cobb was so difficult -- the opposite of fighting, unnatural. Arthur wished he were with someone who spoke his language.

“Yeah.” Arthur said, “I think I’ve figured it out.”


End file.
